


No Matter What

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (and a tiny bit of angst), (it's not a lot though), Fluff, Illya's past, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: prompt: how about the first time napoleon hugs illya? and it's not just a small hug, but a long one? :D“I’m here,” Napoleon whispers.“I know,” he replies, “Thank you.”





	No Matter What

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anonymous

In his childhood, Illya had never questioned the love his parents felt for him. He noticed it every time his mother directed a bright smile at him and every time his father listened to his stories, all serious, his chin propped on his folded hands, as if it was the most important thing in the world. His life had consisted of hugs, gentle words and kisses.

Once his father was sent to Gulag, everything changed. The light in his mother's eyes vanished slowly, with it the hugs and consequently, his own happiness. He still tried to be a good son, because she raised him to be better, but he didn't succeed. There was too much anger in him.

With his enlistment to the special forces and the KGB came the pain. For the first time he was surrounded by complete darkness, an endless maelstrom of hits and insults. Illya learned to live with it. He had to and ultimately, the training helped him control his anger. 

He rose to top ranks quickly, but at the cost of his own gentleness. Whenever his handler unleashed him, like an animal trapped for too long, he acted merciless just like they had taught him to be. Violence took over his life and he stopped visiting his mother - he couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore. 

During that time, if someone would've asked him what he thought about his job, he would've replied with: “I like it.” Even though it was brutal and bloody, he welcomed the challenge. Since Russia stopped being his home, he enjoyed travelling, going to new places and contemplating whether to get a safe house or not.

In the periods between finishing an old mission and waiting for new orders, life seemed almost slow. Illya was able to buy new books, practise his accent, chat with locals and to relax - capitalist indulgences his handler wouldn't appreciate. 

He knew people in his profession didn't get old, which was the reason why he cherished his free time even more. It was a welcomed distraction from the ugly thoughts and memories that came back as soon as he set foot on Russian ground. There he spent restless nights in his small apartment in St. Petersburg, never knowing if they would be his last.  
Until everything changed, again.

* * *

“Ich kann dich nicht hören!” Gaby puts both of her hands over her ears and shakes her head. 

“Listen, you do not,” Illya starts, his usual accent lacing his words. 

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, its pinky stroking the exposed skin of his neck for a brief moment. “Peril, she said she can’t hear you.” 

Illya can see the damned grin, even though Napoleon stands behind him. With a scowl he half turns, the light that falls through the big living room windows blinding him for a moment, directing his best glare at his partner. “Stop encouraging her!” he snaps. 

Napoleon just lifts his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. “You do know our Gaby, nothing is worth less than my word.”

From the smile that appears on his face only seconds later, Illya can tell that Gaby has probably flipped him off. The confirmation of his analysis follows immediately: “Dummkopf.”

“Could you stop it?” he snaps, focusing on her again. 

In a perfect Napoleon impression Gaby draws her eyebrows up, while his partner simply looks away, sighing. He regrets his outburst immediately, because he can see both of them starting to worry again.

Since he got out of bed, he had felt anxious, as if in anticipation for a big event to happen. It had shown during their lunch “date” - a term only used by his partners - when he had bellowed Napoleon to stop playing with his signet ring. Gaby had glared at him for the next three hours, while Cowboy succumbed to complete silence, more pushing the food around the plate than actually eating it.

As soon as they had left the restaurant, Gaby had hit Illya on the arm, stomping off like a horde of enraged elephants afterwards. Napoleon had merely forced a smile before he had followed her.

Their easy camaraderie and how fast they had turned against him hadn't helped. Illya had nearly flown into a temper then and there, only held back by the observation that he was in a public place. 

“Stop what?” Gaby brings him back into the present, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. 

“Stop being this childish.” 

“Oh? Why don’t you stop mothering us?” she shoots back.

It hits him like a ton of bricks, burying him under the crushing weight of guilt. Illya tenses up, cold shivers running down his arms. He knows now. Knows, why he has been miserable for the whole day.

“Peril? Is everything alright?” Napoleon wraps his fingers around his wrist.

Illya shakes his head and tries to control his trembling hands. Of course he doesn’t succeed.

“I need to be alone,” he forces out, trying to breathe, but failing. 

“Gaby, darling, could you give us a minute?” Napoleon asks. 

“I-” She looks uncertain for a moment, before she nods. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon begins to let go of him, seemingly to hug her goodbye, but Illya makes a low noise of protest. 

The other man’s touch anchors him and he fears once he lets go he won’t be able to control himself. 

“Tell me if you need something, anything,” he hears Gaby say, but it sounds far away. 

There is the sound of a door closing and they are alone. “Peril, what-” Napoleon begins, but Illya shakes his head. “Just-”

“Alright.”

They stay like that for a long time, Illya trying to breathe and Napoleon massaging his wrist with his thumb, rubbing small circles into it. Finally, he looks up. “It’s my mother’s birthday.” 

“Haven’t you called her?” Napoleon wants to know. 

“No. I haven’t,” he confesses and braces for his partner’s outburst. 

Surprisingly, it doesn’t come and he has to remind himself that not everyone’s mother was as gentle and kind as his. 

“But you wrote her?”

“No.” 

“Why haven’t you? What kept you from contacting her?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. 

Napoleon sighs. “So what’s the matter then?”

“Nothing, I-” He licks his lips, a nervous habit he’s picked up from Napoleon. “I just realised I have not seen her in ten years.” 

Napoleon’s eyes widen almost comically. “Ten years?!”

“That’s what I said.” Irritated, he looks up.

“Peril, that’s a terribly long time, especially for your standards,” Napoleon explains. 

“Do you think I don't know that?” he hisses, leaning into his personal space. 

Instead of answering, Napoleon lets go of his wrist. Before he can protest, he wraps his arms around Illya, pulling him into a fierce hug and crushing him to his chest. A few moments and his brain catches up to what is happening. Reluctantly, he returns the hug, while goosebumps spread over his arms when he feels Napoleon's warm breath ghosting over his neck. 

With a little bit of hesitation, and a sound that is more a sob than a sigh, Illya buries his face in his shoulder. He feels Napoleon squeeze him a little bit tighter for a moment and tries to not think about the shudder that runs through him. 

They have shared hugs before, mainly to greet another or to say goodbye, but this one feels different, more significant, as if the natural balance they've established has shifted. It also differs from embraces of his past lovers, none of them were able to elicit such a wide range of emotions: closeness and trust - accompany to their friendship, love - the one he doesn't want to think about - and finally, home. 

The epiphany, when it comes, feels more like an universally acknowledged truth he wasn't able to see until now. Their shared apartment should've been enough to indicate a drastic change in Illya's life: Gaby's clothes in every room, Napoleon's library of cooking books, as well as his pans, pots and kettles, his photographs from past missions, the little cactus, a gift from an old lady in Morocco.

“I’m here,” Napoleon whispers. 

“I know,” he replies, “Thank you.” 

He means it. Silence stretches out between them and he's able to hear and feel Napoleon breathing, every rise and fall of his chest calming him down a little bit more. He bathes in his presence, because it's a reassuring anchor to reality and a privilege, to hold Napoleon and to own his trust. Thus he doesn't want to let go. 

Although he doesn't know how long it will take for things to get awkward between them, he huffs out a pleased sigh and thanks every deity listening Napoleon doesn't seem inclined to put more space between them. The other man starts to rub his back with languid motions, instinctively applying a little bit more pressure when Illya leans into the touch. 

“I'm here,” he whispers again. 

This time Illya doesn't answer and just lets the reassurance wash over him. There isn't much to say anyway. 

A silly thought crosses his mind and he can't help the laugh bubbling up in his throat. 

“What's the matter?” Napoleon wants to know, sounding amused as well.

Illya separates himself to search his partner's face, all the while trying to resist the temptation to let his thumbs run over the crinkles around his eyes. He's never seen a more honest smile on Napoleon's face and he's sure he's never seen a more beautiful one either. 

“Nothing, I just thought this was the longest you were silent in my presence,” he says and huffs amused, once Napoleon sputters indignantly, “Even in your sleep, you're always talking.”  
“Be quiet.” Napoleon shakes his head, trying nonchalance, but still appearing embarrassed. 

Illya decides against a verbal reply and hugs him again, briefer this time. When they part, although only for a few centimetres, Napoleon stands on his tiptoes and brings their foreheads together. 

There is a suspicious _click_ , followed by a delighted: “Wie süß!” 

They both start, stumbling back. Napoleon nearly falls over the back of the couch. While Illya has no chance to recover, before Gaby is on him and throws herself into his arms. 

“We're not cute,” he protests. 

“A little bit,” she answers and pinches his cheek. 

Then, she hugs Napoleon as well. “Well, I am very cute,” he says. 

“Dummkopf,” she says again and makes Illya wonder if it isn't an affectionate nickname by now, because his partner’s smile isn’t forced. 

“So after two years of dancing around each other you finally confessed your feelings?” Gaby asks, a smug grin on her face. 

“Feelings?” Illya repeats in bewilderment. 

“How about you call her,” Napoleon interrupts them, playing with his signet ring again.

“Call who?” Gaby draws her brows together. 

Napoleon looks at him, all sheepish and ducks his head. It's an unfamiliar thing to do for him and if Illya didn't know better, he would think the other man looks shy. 

“My mother,” he answers, “it's her birthday.” 

“Then call her,” Gaby says, as if it was the easiest thing to do and grabs Napoleon's hand, “And the two of us will have a short chat about-”

“No,” Illya interrupts her, “Please stay.” 

“Uhm alright.” 

They all settle on the couch, Gaby taking most of the space and forcing Napoleon and Illya to squeeze in beside her. Reluctantly, he leans over his partner and takes the phone from the small side table. 

“Do you know her number?” Napoleon wants to know and is about to get up, seemingly to grab their shared address book. 

“By heart,” he answers quickly.

The expression on Napoleon's face changes into a mixture of sadness, sympathy and vulnerability. Before he can open his mouth, Illya shakes his head and leans against him, to avoid loss of contact. 

He feels Napoleon's amused chuckle, before he wraps an arm around Illya. Not around his shoulders, but around his waist. At first, it feels a little bit strange, because Napoleon's hand worms it's way along his back, but once it settles, the intimacy of the gesture hits him and he has to suppress a shiver. 

“Are you done?” Gaby wants to know, her fingers thrumming against the surface of their second side table rather impatiently. 

“Not quite,” Napoleon answers, getting kicked in the side lightly for his smug grin.

He just nudges Gaby's foot away and turns to Illya. “Are you ready?” he wants to know. 

Illya turns his head to look at him, scrutinising his face for a moment. He finds nothing but gentleness and affection. When he looks to Gaby, he finds a similar expression, although she seems ready to grab the receiver and to dial the number herself by now. 

They are his friends, his partners, and most importantly, his family. 

“Yes,” he answers finally. 

Then, with Napoleon's reassuring warmth pressed to his side, and Gaby's silent vigil, he takes a deep breath and dials the number.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again. Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are always appreciated :D
> 
> I posted this on my [Tumblr](http://napoleonsolos.tumblr.com/post/160591991196/prompt-how-about-the-first-time-napoleon-hugs) as well, if you want to check it out. Prompts are still open, so if you want to read something specific, hmu. 
> 
> Before we end this, I'd like to thank my lovely beta [Jo](http://softshao.tumblr.com/), as well as [Kathi](https://deducitetemporacarmen.tumblr.com/). You guys are the best. 
> 
> That's about it, have a good one!


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